Sour Patch Kids
by West of California
Summary: Some days, their bitter interactions are just like candy - Sour, Sweet, Gone.  Shizaya oneshot.


**A/N: Commercials can fuel the best fanfics ;D**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Durarara**

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It always started out the same as any other day. Izaya would be strolling around Ikebukuro, wearing a sinister grin and wondering who he could destroy today, wondering what human would be his next plaything, his next fixation, something to pick at and wear away until it was nothing but bones and broken sentiment. Who could he next lure into a trap, who next could he test the sharpness of his tongue, the smoothness of his words, and the coolness of his intellect against? It was a big city filled with endless possibilities and endless supplies of those amazing little creatures called humans.

He'd be carefully placing one foot right in front of the other as he walked the thin border of a flower garden in the park, holding his arms out for balance and teetering to one side or another from time to time, laughing when he caught himself. Maybe, if he wasn't doing that, he'd be standing on a rooftop, his arms spread wide as he relished the feeling of the wind through his hair and observed the city laid out before him, watched the busy people who took their lives all too seriously go about their business in a rush. Perhaps he'd even be there simply to meet up with somebody, obtain something, bother someone.

And then he'd see Shizuo.

Now, some days, it might end there. He'd slip away, unnoticed, and the blonde man would continue to drag on his cigarette and glare at everything around him, none the wiser. Other days... things didn't go so favorably. Those were the nights that Izaya would go home with bruises on his cheeks, his arms, his fingertips sliced from fumbling his own blade and a groan of pain constantly at the tip of his tongue. Those were the nights he'd spend sighing and wincing as Namie attended to his wounds and scolded him like a child, and the next day, maybe two days later if it was bad, he'd be perfectly fine to venture once again into Ikebukuro as if nothing had happened. Wash, rinse, repeat.

And then, there were those... other days. The days where, after they'd fight, and after Shizuo had been marred by the blade-inflicted cuts on his arms and face, and after Izaya had been backed into a corner, panting and limping as his injuries began to swell, that Shizuo would suddenly scoop him up in his arms with a grunt and throw the informer none-too-gently over his shoulder. Izaya would kick and fight and scratch, demanding that he be let go, even confessing that it hurt when Shizuo held him so roughly after such a fierce fight between the two of them. Shizuo would growl and tell him to be quiet and just go along with it, to stop being such a stupid little flea and shut up. Izaya would send him resentful glares and bare his teeth and try to draw his knife only to have his hand stilled impatiently by a much stronger one, all the while hate himself for being such a weakling. For being so weak-willed.

Sour.

Those days turned into nights where he'd be taken to Shizuo's apartment, still bleeding as his fresh bruises began to gain a sickly red-puple color, rimmed with just the lightest tinge of yellow. Shizuo would wipe the blood off of his own face before turning to his captive and cleaning him off as well, gently rubbing a warm washcloth against his cheeks as Izaya tried to pout and fume and turn away. The light touch of a finger under his chin, though, always turned his face toward Shizuo's, who would study him intently with his deep brown eyes. Izaya would swallow hard and watch Shizuo warily, too scared to move. Scared because he knew what was coming. And then, Shizuo would press his lips against Izaya's, hard.

Shizuo would crawl onto his worn couch, straddling Izaya's waist and holding him tight – but not too tight – as he whispered apologies between smokey kisses. Izaya would halfheartedly try to squirm away, but he'd give in soon enough, and they'd kiss and Izaya would wind his arms around Shizuo as he was laid against the couch, and they'd murmur secrets to each other that, maybe, wouldn't be so real the next day if they were kept inside the apartment, kept on their couch, and never said twice. They'd always say something different, but it all meant the same thing to Izaya.

Sweet.

They'd grow more passionate, more rough. Their needs would increase, they'd rub against each other and whisper each others names in the almost-dark, kissing necks and shoulders (because Shizuo liked shoulders) and collarbones, running hands intimately over vast, smooth planes of chests and stomachs, backs. Izaya reached a point eventually where he felt like he knew every crevice, every irregularity, every dip and rise and even every sweet spot of Shizou's body, and he knew that Shizuo had found all that out about him much quicker.

They'd finally reach a point and go all the way, and whisper 'I'm sorry's and 'Did I hurt you too bad?'s to each other as they lay together afterward. A false sense of security would creep over Izaya then, even as a sick feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he could pretend that he didn't know what would happen when he woke up in the morning. Maybe, if he pretended, it would turn out different, and he wouldn't be left feeling like dirt.

But it was after days like that that he'd wake up to the sound of a particularly persistent bird chirping outside the dingy window of Shizuo's apartment only to realize that Shizuo had gone already without leaving so much as a note, and that he'd bite his lip to help ebb the pain away, bite it until he drew blood to try to stave off the emptiness that threatened to overtake him as he threw on his clothes and donned his wrinkled coat. He'd crack the door open a little at a time, unsure if he was ready to face the world again, all alone, and step outside and lie to himself once more, pretend once more, and say to himself that it meant nothing, that those words whispered the night before weren't real as long as he left them behind in the apartment, on their couch. And he'd tell himself that Shizuo would have been there to wake up with him if he could, and that he still had some sense of pride, any sense of self-worth, any dignity or feeling at all, that everything wasn't just like Shizuo.

Gone.

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**A/N: Wow... that was only a little depressing xD but, I've been in an angsty mood today, so don't be too mad at me.**

**I've also been in a write-y kinda mood, too - I've put out, like, three Shizaya oneshots in the last week, week and a half maybe. Hope you guys don't mind too much ;)**

**I tried not to get all, like, explicit and such with this, but please tell me if you think I should bump the rating up just to be safe. Heaven forbid I break the Terms of Service! XD**

**Thanks for reading! Care to review, too?**


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